


Guilty Pleasure

by glitterbrain



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Other, not crack, yes this is Exactly What You Think It Is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 03:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16548287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterbrain/pseuds/glitterbrain
Summary: Every man has his guilty pleasures. Lancer’s just happens to be smutty romance novels.





	Guilty Pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> this is officially the worst thing I've ever written, but, y'know what, I wanted to be known as the first person to ever write porn about Mr Lancer
> 
> If that is my magnum opus, so be it

William Lancer is a simple man.

He likes teaching at Casper High, even if he regularly does the job of five teachers and a Vice Principal, but that’s underfunded public education for you. He likes eating at the Nasty Burger from time to time, even if their food is, unsurprisingly, nasty, but sometimes it just hits the spot. He likes classical literature, and asking him to pick a favorite novel or author would be like asking him to pick a favorite student: impossible and, frankly, unjust. He likes his coworkers well enough, enjoys that first cup of coffee in the morning, and prefers the ever-so-slightly scratchy sound of old records to more modern forms of music.

All around, pretty much exactly what you would expect from a high-school English teacher.

Of course, he is not without his human complexities, and perhaps some of his more niche interests take a turn towards the unorthodox; if he sometimes feels inclined towards crossdressing, he’s certainly secure enough in his masculinity to do so. If he secretly enjoys completely dominating in the online gaming arena, he’s hidden behind the username and avatar of anonymity. And if, late at night, in his own home, occasionally, he breaks out a trashy old romance novel for the thrill of it, no one’s the wiser.

Every man has his guilty pleasures. Lancer’s just happens to be smutty romance novels.

There’s a small table next to Lancer’s bed, and outwardly there’s nothing special about it; an alarm clock, a small lamp, a glass of water, a box of tissue - standard issue Human Being Stuff. Otherwise, the table has two drawers; the bottom one is where those guilty pleasure books are stored, safely out of thought and view until wanted, and the top is where he keeps a small collection of sexual supplies - condoms, lube, and a few assorted toys - one, on the very slim chance another person somehow finds their way into his bed with him, and two, because those damn books are guilty pleasures in more ways than one.

Lancer is a solitary man by nature, having never really craved much companionship even in his younger years, and never finding much pull towards romantic endeavors in particular. Certainly he’d had a few flings as a teenager and in college, but as he’s grown older his desire to have another person involved in his life has gone in a markedly downwards direction; relationships, platonic or romantic, are messy, complicated, more trouble than they’re worth as far as he’s concerned. He’s far happier by himself, with the ability to do what he wants, when he wants, how he wants.

Still… He is not a man without a libido, low as it might be, a fact that being alone hasn’t ever changed, and sometimes, baser urges have to be taken care of.

A glass of wine, low light, a jazz record playing, and one of those smutty romance books; Lancer has a lot of experience with wooing himself.

His bed is a double, not overly flashy but not devoid of personality either, with enough pillows and a comforter plush enough to really get comfortable. It makes for great sleep after herding teenagers around for eight (sometimes more) hours and reading truly terrible essays. It also makes for great... relaxation of a sexual nature.

So he settles in nice and cozy, takes a sip of wine, and opens his book.

Despite his love of solitude, these stories (like all stories, really), allow for fantasy, and that’s all he needs. It’s easy to put oneself in the role of either character involved, something which Lancer, who has no strong preference for any gender, regularly takes advantage of. Some nights it’s more enticing to imagine himself in the feminine role, being wooed by a handsome fellow with strong arms and a heart of gold despite a tough, stoic exterior; on the other hand, sometimes imagining himself sweeping a lovely, soft, shapely lady off her feet and being rewarded with physical sensuality is tempting as well. Never both, though. Can’t imagine taking himself to bed, except for that one time he drank a little too much wine and things got really weird.

Sometimes, just reading itself is enough, as it is tonight. While deviant, there’s something thrilling about the idea of voyeurism, though being a glorified outside observer to a fictional couple in a book made for the express purpose of voyeurism is as far as Lancer ever wants to go down that particular path. It’s more than enough to let imagination take over, to get lost in the ideals and the principle of the situation, to boil it down to its most basic ingredients and let them fill the senses.

The characters become secondary; physicality, sensation -- heat, pressure, friction, tension -- these bleed to the surface and take priority, while the characters fade away.

A few minutes of reading and idly palming himself through his pajama pants and the pleasant buzz of arousal works its way through his veins, through his thighs and hips. Another couple minutes, a scandalously graphic passage, and he’s hard, that buzz turning to a steady, sharp-edged warmth that twists in his stomach and blooms into his limbs.

He opens the top drawer of his bedside table and fishes around until he finds the condoms, pulls one out of the box, and tears it open; he’s done this enough times he can do nearly all of it with one hand, without looking away from the book. He does have to put the book down momentarily, however, to dispense a generously large drop of lube into the condom, push his pajama pants down his hips, and roll it on.

And for a moment he just lays there, book on his chest, eyes closed, just enjoying that first feeling of touching himself in earnest. Physicality, sensation... The heat of his hand, the pressure as he squeezes, the friction as he pumps up and down, the tension mounting in his muscles. Transitioning from the set up to the build up, like a good story.

After a few moments Lancer picks up the book again, continues reading, varying the rhythm of his hand in accordance with how... descriptive each paragraph is, gradually moving faster; Rising Action, is how it’s commonly referred to in basic literary terms, that upwards journey from Inciting Incident to the inevitable Climax.

It doesn’t take long before the book is set aside - gently and mindfully, as Lancer handles all books, no matter how Terribly Trashy they are. Tonight’s not a night for drawing things out. He presses back against his pillows, closes his eyes, chases that Rising Action, that abstract concept given physical feeling, the intimately pleasant sensation of his hand between his legs enough to keep him going without any particular fantasy in mind.

He squeezes, picks up the pace, hisses at the jolt of electricity through his limbs that fizzles outwards like fireworks He quickens his pace, heat settling thick in his lungs and making it a little tougher to breathe without gasping, tension coiling tighter and making his muscles twitch, his limbs go taut, head pushes back against the pillows.  
Once, twice, thrice; twist the wrist ever so--

Rising Action gives way to Climax, hits him hard like a good plot twist, coursing through him in erratic waves of that same electricity, unintelligible thought, bliss, physical pleasure and release.

He lays there for a good five minutes, enjoying the process of coming down, just listening to the quiet sound of the jazz record still playing, the blood still thumping in his ears as his breathing goes back to normal.

Denouement, the end phase of a good story. Often overlooked, in Lancer’s opinion; while perhaps, admittedly, not as exciting as everything preceding it, oftentimes it’s nearly as rewarding, reveling in the relief, the security, the satisfaction of things being wrapped up and resolved.

And, occasionally, the tease of a sequel.

**Author's Note:**

> you're welcome


End file.
